Monday October
by TieItOff
Summary: Tweek runs streets at midnight wearing bunny slippers, his alcoholism grows in soup cans, he thinks Paris is overrated and that Craig should know what the fuck a brioche is. And Craig's apparently the crazy one. (*I guess this could be a Creek. :P Any one know of a good Beta reader? Is this the appropriate time to ask such a thing?)


_Ciao! I'm R and this is Monday October! I suck at writing romance stuff, but maybe this could be a pairing? I dunno. Not sure what you're going to think of this. But if you're out there, would you mind telling me? If you just leave a comment, it'll give me the motive to make more of my story/delete it all right away. Thanks a bunch, dude. Queue the opening theme..._

It's Monday October.

2413 hours and my mother has left me for a disease.

No, it's really not a commercialized-it's-okay-if-you-need-help-we're-all-here-for-you-kind-of-thing that breaks down most of America's sitcoms from teen dramas when they get confusing. It's the kind where you don't love her no matter what she says. Well, _I _still do, but what kind of asshole would I be if I didn't love my own mom? It's the disease where she leaves her undergarments all around the house. Sober and wasted, she believes that the sun will "cleanse them", even though she shuts the curtains so no light can come through the house; skin cancer and vampire protection. Totally logical, right? It's also the illness where she yells at me for leaving lady's underwear all over the house, sometimes accusing me of wearing them.

_That's_ why it's Monday October and _that's_ why I'm standing outside of a house of a person I barely know, but he knows me freakishly well, throwing bread crust at his window. Because batshit insanity runs at high numbers in my family. He never opens the window to this, probably because he sleeps with earplugs on to block out the shouts he hears in his head.

Kidding. I can joke, too, you know. Not everyone in this town has gone sour.

It's right before the window opens when I decide to chuck my shoe at it. The old thing screeches, taking some fragments of cracked lead paint with it and my friend shoves one of his drum sticks in the window to keep it from damaging any more two hundred year old paint. I feel myself grin up at him and he just shakes his head, walking out of sight. A few minutes later, he climbs out of the window, wearing his stupid little bunny slippers and a beat up marine's messenger bag. He throws the shoe back down at me and sighs at all the bread crusts.

"You're really _hopping_ tonight." He glares and pulls on my shoulder. "What? I thought it was funny."

"Walk with me."

"That is exactly what I'm doing. Don't ya just _hate _it when someone tel-"

"_Shh_." He hushes me. We're only few feet from his driveway, so he claws his hand on my shoulder once more and runs down the street. It's like inhaling ice cubes, but cold doesn't seem to bother him. We stop at the end of the street and I flop down by the sign. He sits by me, struggling for breath. He's kind of a wimp. "Why don't you just..._just_ cry it out, Tucker?"

"I don't want to stop..." I admit and kick the sign. I think a slithering disgusting little creature who just hoards and hoards all the love and life from someone special, who just drains them and expects the kid to drag around this sad, used to be special person, sucks. I just think it _sucks. _

"Wanna bum one?"

"You of all people have one to bum. Sure, sure. Let's do this."

"I wasn't really prepared for you to say yes." He pulls out an open soup can from the bag and I can't help but snort.

"What the hell?"

"It gets better, man," He wiggles the can a little bit and I can hear the liquid slush about, completely unaware of its' fate. "_If_ you're not an _asshole_, I'll give you some."

"What, of your vegan _stew_?"

"First," He grumbles absently and answers like he's thought overtime on this. "Stew should be vegan. You're a moron as well as a buffoon if you think not. Second, this is a _soup _can. Who preserves stew in a little 12 ounce can? Who even _has_ packaged stew?"

"_I_, the joker and the idiot,package my stew."

"Well, you're insane, too," He shakes the can and takes a giant gulp from it. "_Gahhh_. It burns." He grins and squeezes his face. "Have some." He pushes the can at my hands.

"Oh, I see what it is. It's _hot_ 'stew'," I air quote it to annoy him. He hates that kind of thing. "That makes it all the better," I take a swig, expecting tomato or something with watery barley. "Shit, man, that's _alcohol_." I start laughing at him and hand it back.

"I know," He smiles and takes another swig. "I like to think my alcohol tolerance is pretty happy."

"Dude, you kidding? It's all _punked _out now or some shit." I mutter and grab the can. I take a big swig.

"Easy, man," He pats my back with his spiraling spidery fingers and mumbles. "Wanna tell me why you dragged my sorry ass out of bed just to drink shitty scotch out of a soup can with you?" I think about it briefly and shake my head. I don't look at him.

"Nah."

"No worries," he nods and looks away. "At all," he clarifies and I just sit there. "Just like, if you _need_ to talk, y'know," He gulps a huge load of scotch and smiles. "Have a swig and shut up."

I don't know why it's even funny. It's probably the remoteness of the time, or the fact I have a friend who gets drunk off of soup with me. Or maybe it was just the science of the whole thing that makes my life and that moment so goddamn funny.

"You make the world better, man."

"Preaching to the choir."

"Amen," I laugh and look up. The sky is boringly black with an overhang of orange. I cringe. "You know...when I lived in Brooklyn, my mom used to take me up to the country. You wouldn't believe that the sky there is so..._nice_ or some shit." His hands start fraying his bag even more. "My neighborhood was a fucking mess in New York. The cops would bang the hookers they arrested and all that corrupt shit. All under that murky orange sky. We didn't get any stars either. It was worse." I watch him look at the sky. He just looks so intrigued by it. His expression makes me want to rethink my stance on light pollution. "But the country is so fucking beautiful. It just," He coughs and looks at me. I look back at the sky. "Doesn't fit. Don't you just hate how we can't see stars? It's like a goddamn facade or something." He hands me the soup can and lowers his voice.

"My_ whole _life has been in this town. This utterly, completely and royally screwed town," He laughs and I fork over the soup can. "And the only thing that makes me want to stay is all this fucking light pollution," He leans back and shuts his eyes. "At least I can dream about what's behind the lights, y'know? When I..._if_ I see what's really there..." he shakes his head and coughs again. "I know I won't handle it." I want to say all those cheesy things people say to their friends. But _I believe in you _just doesn't fit. So I opt for ruffling his absurd hair. He sort of scoffs and covers it up with another cough.

"This stew is really quite divine," I'm trying to get out of the awkward air and he gladly agrees. "Where on earth did you get this recipe?"

"As it happens, it wasn't on earth at all," His voice is raspy and lower. I raise my eyebrows as his stupid little bunny slippers wiggle but he doesn't even care. He's like that. He doesn't give a damn if the bunnies on his feet wiggle. He just keeps walking the same way. "Mars."

"Ah, well. Nice brew."

"Mm, yeah, I thought so." He sighs and starts whistling. It's fitting for the night. I kick at the stop sign a few times and he flinches.

"_And the living is_," I sing along, poorly on purpose, and lower my voice to extraordinary

feats. "_easy_. _Fish are jumping. And the cotton is high_."

"You're so bad," He covers his ears.

"_Fish are jump-_"

"You _just _sang that part."

"Itsmysongsoshutup_Your daddy's rich_,"

"_And your ma is good lo-_" He rudely butts in with, frankly, the voice everyone can be rightfully jealous of. He's like a fucking miracle worker with notes.

"_Good looking._" I sing out as interruption payback.

"_So hush little baby,_" I decide to close my eyes and let him finish the rest. "_dohhhhooon't you cry._" I open my eyes and look at his perfectly content and rather drowsy face. Then I look back at his bunny slippers, which are nodding nobly in the wind as he whistles Satchmo's part.

"I want you to come with me to Paris," The bliss is gone. His eyes are now wide open, his mouth is hanging low and he looks so fucking tense. I probably shouldn't've said that. He just stares. "You know I've been thinking about if for some time..." Still no blinking. "Paris is fucking nice..." Is he having a heart attack? "We could take a boat. Instead of like, flying. I know you're afraid of that shit."

"Paris?" He seriously considers, biting his cheek. I nod, more enthusiastic than I'd like. "And where are you-"

"The money?" I ask and he just nods. "Someone wants to buy the piano."

"But you play it all the time."

"Which is why it should go," He furrows his brows and stares pensively at the pavement. Why doesn't he just _ask_. "I don't want anything tying back when shit goes down."

"'Shit goes down'?" He sarcastically air quotes.

"I thought you hated air quotes."

"Apparently it's time to throw out things you love and replace them with things you hate," I accidentally scoff at this. He widens his eyes and points at me accusingly. "Oh, really! _Really!_ You hate the way French sounds," I scoff again, this time on purpose. His eerie green eyes somehow get larger. "Who is Edith Piaf!"

"I...don't _mind _Edith Piaf."

"It's _Pee-ahhhf _not _Pie-_eeef, you hypocritical douchebag!"

"I was trying to give the woman some pride! Her name sounds like a pissing contest!" His mouth is hanging wide and he slaps his hand over it. He looks shocked. I roll my eyes. Suck it up.

"Oh, so what about French food?"

"Brioche is fine."

"Fuck you very much!"

"What? What'd I say?"

"You can't stand brioche, you, you...hypocrite!"

"You already _called _me that. You suck at insults, Tweek."

"Whatever! At least I'm not a liar!"

"Yes, yes you are. Very much so. I said I liked brioche and now you're telling me I don't."

"Craig, you don't even _know _what brioche is."

"I tota-_wait_. Look," I reason. "I'm not going to argue about whether or not I like brio-"

"-You don't." He mutters.

"Whatever. I just want to get the hell out of here." He stares at me for a few seconds, with this totally unreadable expression that creeps me the fuck out. His eyes are furrowed and he blinks every ten seconds, slow as hell.

"What happened to you tonight, dude?" I blink a few times. Perhaps I can hypnotize him not to ask.

"Nothing." I lied.

"You're lying." Dammit.

"Why would I lie? I said nothing and nothing it is." He nods and sucks his cheeks in.

"Paris, huh?"


End file.
